As soon as the sun had come up above the horizon, she was dressed in jeans, Doc Martens, and a thick sweater. She picked up her bunker bag and marched down to the village area of the harbor, where a smattering of shops and markets lined the walk near the lighthouse.
Fortunately, in spite of the cool temperatures, the winds were calm and the sun was bright overhead. She stopped in a coffee bar, ordered a huge double latte and a brownie, and sat at one of the outside tables. Pulling a book from her bag, she pretended to be reading as she watched people milling about.
When she and Myron had come here two years or so ago, they had stayed at his parents’ condominium, and she recalled it being somewhere nearby. Every day, Myron had walked to Harbor Town. If he was on Hilton Head Island, he’d be through sometime today, and all she had to do was wait.
And imagine the many ways to slay him, Wile E. Coyote style, with dynamite to stick in his mouth and giant anvils to drop on his head.
Back in Providence, Joe had called headquarters from Dagne’s flat and arranged for a flight to Savannah, Georgia, for him and Flynn, and by the time he had finished telling his commander what was going on, Dagne had appeared from her bedroom, carrying a very large overnight bag.
Joe hung up the phone, took one look at the bag, and immediately started shaking his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “No way.”
“You can’t stop me,” she said defiantly, raising her chin. “It’s a free country, and unless I am under arrest, I am going, too.”
“You have to be out of your redheaded mind,” Joe said. “The last thing we need is someone like you mucking up the works—”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be able to help you?”
“Not once,” he said instantly and adamantly. “Not even a freakin’ second.”
“That’s because you’re just a big bully whose powers of thinking are extremely limited—”
“Beg your pardon, but we could very well stand here bickering about it all night,” Flynn said, anxious to get to the airport. He looked at Joe. “Can we legally or physically stop her from taking the same flight to Georgia?”
Joe frowned. “No,” he said with a growl. “Not without rousing a judge and losing time.”
Dagne smiled triumphantly at that and hoisted the bag over her shoulder. “Told you so,” she said, and proceeded to stride out of her flat.
“Someone is going to die before this is all said and done, mark my words,” Joe muttered as he marched out after her.
“Frankly, I should be so lucky,” Flynn grumbled as he brought up the rear.
There was another argument in the parking lot when Joe refused to let Dagne ride in his state-issued vehicle. “I have a gun in there. I don’t need psycho-witch touching anything.”
“Very well, then,” Flynn said sternly, and forced them both into his rental car, figuring he’d take it up with Lloyds of London when this case was finally put to rest.
He drove to Boston, keeping his eyes on the road as Dagne tried to explain the inherent value of witchcraft to them. It was a given, Flynn thought, that a man like Joe would not buy such an argument, and he was quite right—Joe was so appalled that he and Dagne argued the entire hour or so it took them to reach Boston.
In Boston, they found a cheap hotel near the airport, so that they might catch the first morning flight out to Savannah. As they had only a couple of hours to wait, they took one room. Naturally, Dagne stretched out on the bed while Joe and Flynn sat in ridiculously uncomfortable chairs and tried to catch a kip, but Dagne’s snoring made that impossible.
Flynn eventually made his way to the car and stretched out on the backseat, and when he awoke the next morning, he found Joe in quite foul humor on the floor of the room. Dagne, however, was feeling quite chipper, judging by the way she talked.
And talked.
And talked.
About absolutely nothing, expounding on her life for the most part, pausing occasionally to philosophize—or proselytize, as the case may be. She had many thoughts about witchcraft, and evolution. And a rather adamant belief in life on other planets.
“You’re a certified nut job, you know that?” Joe demanded once she had finished telling them of an encounter she had with a space alien as a teen.
“So I suppose you think that anyone with experiences and beliefs that differ from yours is automatically a certified nut job, don’t you?”
“No—just you.”
“That’s such typical ogre behavior. Why can’t Neanderthals like you open their minds?”
“Maybe you should cast one of your spells,” he said, wiggling his fingers at her.
“Don’t tempt me, dude,” she said, flouncing petulantly back into her seat.
“What do you think, Flynn? Put much stock in witchcraft or space aliens?” Joe asked through a yawn.
Dagne shot forward again. “And before you answer that, Flynn, remember one thing: Va-nil-la,” she said, rather mysteriously.
“Actually, all the chatting about witches and witchcraft is really giving me a rather fierce headache,” Flynn responded irritably. “So if you don’t mind.”